


Gaudeamus igitur

by Sarah T (SarahT)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-19 01:19:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarahT/pseuds/Sarah%20T
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft recruits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gaudeamus igitur

Sherlock stormed into his rooms in a terrible mood, realizing only too late that the reason for that terrible mood was waiting on his sofa, looking disgustingly proper.

"Mycroft," he snapped.

"Sherlock," his brother answered, not looking up from what Sherlock could now see was one of his notebooks. "You've got it all wrong about the master, I'm afraid. He's actually—"

He lunged forward and snatched the book from his hands. "Don't tell me." He walked over to his desk, shoved the book into a drawer, and banged the drawer shut. "What are you doing here? Run out of classmates of mine to seduce?"

"'Seduce?'" Sherlock could see Mycroft wrinkling his nose, even though he had his back turned. "What a dreadfully inaccurate verb. I'm surprised at you."

"What's so inaccurate about it? I saw you with Peter Thompson. You were practically fluttering your eyelashes at him."

They had been strolling along the river. Mycroft had pointed something out with his umbrella, and then turned, so attentive, to see what Thompson had to say about it. Thompson had gazed into the distance, and Mycroft's eyes had taken on that remote quality that meant he was really observing. As if Peter Thompson offered the slightest interest.

"Well, Professor Keane speaks very highly of him. My department is hiring this year. Someone has to do the interviewing."

"So you came to coax him down into that den of debauchery of yours?"

"You know I can't discuss such matters with you," Mycroft said, patiently, reasonably. "But, really, Sherlock. Debauchery? The Office of Forensic Accounting is hardly—"

"And then you were talking to Victor Trevor." That had been even more infuriating. Sherlock turned to let Mycroft have the full force of his glare for that. "The way you were throwing yourself at him—disgusting."

Mycroft leaned back, examining the handle of his umbrella. "An analysis of your rhetoric indicates that it's not your puerile political views which are animating you at this moment."

"My political views? I don't _have_ political views. I'm far too intelligent for politics."

"Yes, as I said...puerile. But also, at this moment, largely irrelevant."

Sherlock raised his chin challengingly. "Then what is my true motive? Do enlighten me."

Mycroft lifted his gaze from the umbrella to meet Sherlock's. The mildness in his eyes made Sherlock's stomach drop. Mycroft was never more dangerous than when he was pretending to be utterly harmless. But he steeled himself to meet Mycroft's gaze. For thirty-eight seconds, neither of them said anything.

Finally, Mycroft murmured, "Jealousy is so unseemly."

And, really, Mycroft could be too absurd at times. "Jealous?" He flapped his hand dismissively. "Of my idiot classmates? You can have them. I objected only on general principle."

"Don't be dense, Sherlock."

Sherlock stared at him, then laughed shortly. If he were trying to imply—"Well, it's finally happened, then, as I always thought it would. Your ego has actually eaten your brain. What a loss to the country."

"Am I wrong?"

"Of course you're wrong. You're so wrong you've practically come all the way back round to right."

"Indeed." Mycroft didn't look at all put out. He only patted the sofa next to him. "Sit."

"Why should I?"

"Or don't. It will only reinforce my conclusions."

He wasn't going to contribute to Mycroft's self-satisfaction. "Taking orders from you only ever leads to bad things," he grumbled, and flung himself onto the sofa.

Mycroft turned to face him, one arm resting lightly on the back of the sofa. He leaned in, ever so slightly.

"Sherlock," he said soothingly. "You're cleverer than all of them. Put together."

There was a painful thud in his chest. "So you say now."

"So I know. I spent all day wishing I was talking to you instead."

His hand, which had crept subtly along the back of the sofa, slipped into Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock's witty rejoinder vanished off the tip of his tongue. "You…" he said, and stopped. "You've never come to see me here. Not once."

Mycroft's hand was moving, indolent circles, making Sherlock's heart race and paralyzing him at the same time. "That was at your request. Your very strident request, as I recall."

"Of all the times…you choose to respect my wishes…?"

Mycroft was very close now. His mouth drifted over Sherlock's cheekbone. Not quite touching. Mycroft was the master at this: taking them to the very edge of propriety, to the place that Sherlock's brain shuddered and threatened to shut down completely. But didn't. Not quite.

"Are you saying I should visit more often, then?" Breath tickling his eyelids. Slight mintiness from toothpaste, a new brand. Voice, faintly smug—unbearable—but hushed and intimate—irresistible.

"Otherwise, who knows who I might attach myself to?"

Mycroft laughed against his ear, the vibrations startling. "My dear Sherlock, you don't need recruiting. You're already mine."

He knew that, in other circumstances, this would make him impatient—no, furious. But with Mycroft's fingers stroking along his collar, the anger transmuted into a giddy warmth. He wanted to pull Mycroft against him. _Show me, then._

This was why he had left. Why he had forbidden Mycroft to visit. In all probability, why Mycroft had obeyed the prohibition. Because he didn't want to be the first one to break, and he didn't see how it could end any other way.

"Don't hire Victor," he said, dreamily.

"Because he hurt you?"

"Yes," he said, though he could feel it all swirling away now. Victor had pawed and groped. He had laughed too loudly. He had been so crude. What had Sherlock been thinking?

"Triggering a father's suicide often does cast a pall on a relationship," Mycroft said. Sherlock began to stir impatiently, but he forestalled him with the whisper of a palm to his chest. "We won't take him."

"Mycroft," he said, and didn't know what to say next.

Mycroft moved, upwards, and brushed a kiss into Sherlock's hair. That was within the bounds, wasn't it? Even if Mycroft lingered a second longer than he should have. "I have to be getting back to London."

Sherlock felt the familiar bitter wrench that went all the way back to childhood. He opened his eyes. "Matters of importance await, I suppose?"

Mycroft gave him a tolerant smile, then went serious. "If you wish to know these things, Sherlock, you know what you have to do."

" _I'm_ not coming to work for you."

Mycroft surveyed him. "No, I see that. Not yet."

"Not ever." And he meant it. He couldn't fathom what it would be like, to let Mycroft have that kind of power over him.

"Yes, of course. Good afternoon, Sherlock."

Sherlock let him see himself out. He intended to spend the rest of the evening where he was, so as not to disturb the fugitive sensations still sweeping over his skin.

When they had faded, there would be time to deduce what he had gotten wrong about the master.


End file.
